


whispers of a moment, suspended in time

by spilled_notes



Series: Horizons [2]
Category: Shetland (TV), The Bletchley Circle
Genre: (honest), (in that Jamie had no idea what Rosie was planning/what she did), Angst, F/F, Grief, Series 5, Slight Canon Divergence, there's a happy ending though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: A series of photographs, forgotten moments suspended and brought back to life in the wake of Carla’s death.





	whispers of a moment, suspended in time

It’s dark by the time Millie gets back, far later than she’d intended. Her fingers are frozen but it was worth it for the sunset, for the pink and peach and gold as far as the eye could see, for the stars becoming sharper and brighter as the sky darkened. They’re stained with paint too, from an afternoon spent sketching after a lunchtime shift at the café. She has some new ideas for the series of small watercolours Billy suggested would be perfect for tourists with little luggage space, some photos of the sea stacks at Esha Ness silhouetted against the setting sun that she’s already planning canvasses for, the vivid colours and stark shapes crying out for oils. The gallery in Lerwick has asked for more paintings, and Millie knows these will have the right drama to sell.

‘There was the most glorious sky this evening,’ she says as she breezes in, putting her bag down inside the front door and rubbing her chilled hands together. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’m rather late, I couldn’t resist staying until it was–’

She stops in her tracks, coat half off her shoulders, as she walks through and sees Rhona.

The room is dim, the bottle of whisky on the table glowing amber in the light of a single lamp. Rhona is sitting in the half darkness, a near empty tumbler in her hand, Storm’s head in her lap, a handful of photos scattered across the sofa and the table. She’s still in her suit, though she looks dishevelled.

‘Rhona?’ Millie asks quietly.

Rhona raises her head, and Millie sees that her eyes are red and her mascara smudged.

‘What’s happened?’ Millie asks, heart suddenly racing.

Rhona doesn’t reply, looks back down at the photo nearest her. Millie can see the words spinning in her mind, can see that she isn’t quite ready to let them out.

‘Who’s that?’ she asks gently instead, stroking Storm’s head and coming to sit on Rhona’s other side.

‘Carla,’ Rhona says, her voice hoarse.

Millie picks up one of the photos, sees a Rhona around the same age as she was when Millie left Edinburgh and another woman with dark hair and sharp eyes. They’re smiling at the camera, squinting a little as though they’re looking into bright sun.

‘We met not long after I moved here. She was my first real friend here, and then–’ Rhona stops, her breath hitching.

‘And then she was something more?’ Millie guesses, still not able to work out where this is going but with a growing sense of foreboding.

Rhona nods. ‘I can’t even remember the last time I saw her, the last time I spoke to her bar a greeting in the supermarket.’

She stops again, throws back the last of the whisky in her glass. Even in the low light Millie can see the tears gathered in her eyes.

 _I have to ask now,_ she thinks, but Rhona gets there first.

‘She’s dead,’ Rhona says quietly.

Millie’s heart aches and she reaches to touch Rhona’s knee. But her next words make Millie gasp.

‘A murder victim on our incident board. And I can’t get those images of her slumped against her kitchen cupboards, covered in blood, out of my head. I needed to try and replace them.’

She looks down again, picks up a photo and rubs her thumb over the glossy paper, the happy moment frozen in time like a fly in amber.

‘Is it working?’ Millie asks softly.

Rhona shakes her head, shudders and stifles a sob. Millie reaches for her properly, and Rhona practically collapses into her.

*          *          *

The big old table is covered with photos, spilling out of open albums and boxes. His childhood – even his mum’s life before him – spread out in a collage of memories. Jamie stares at them, can’t get his brain into gear to do anything more. He finds the notch in the underside of the wood, the little flaw his questing, probably sticky, fingers discovered when he was a child and have fidgeted with through every tense family meal with Prentice, every difficult piece of homework or paperwork, every hard conversation ever since. Its familiar shape soothes him, the gentle rasp of wood grain against his skin.

He looks at the photos, moves a few aside so he can see the layer underneath. So many records and reminders of their lives, frozen and captured forever. He wonders where they all came from, how mum managed to accumulate so many without them realising.

His aunt Isobel – who isn’t really his aunt, but they’ve always called her aunt – bustles into the room. Part of Jamie is glad of her presence, even if she continually fusses over him – especially now Rosie is gone. But he’d rather she’d just done this herself, instead of nagging at him. He half-heartedly slides another photo across in front of him, but not quickly enough.

‘Come on, Jamie,’ she sighs when she sees that he hasn’t picked any out. ‘I know it’s hard, but you really need to choose something so we can get it to the funeral director.’

‘I know,’ he mutters, shifting in his seat.

‘Here’s some more,’ she says, putting a slightly battered shoebox down in front of him. ‘Looks like there might be some nice ones in here.’

‘I got all the albums out the cupboard,’ he frowns, lifting the lid.

‘It was in your mum’s bedside table,’ Isobel says, bustling off again.

‘Why’d you–’ Jamie starts, but she’s already gone.

 _Why’d you go looking in there?_ he thinks furiously. _Invading her privacy like that._

As if the police hadn’t already picked over the entire house.

But now the lid’s off he can’t help looking inside, takes out a handful of photos and carefully spreads them on top of the ones already on the table.

Their school pictures, him with a forced smile and Prentice with a scowl.

The three of them at Iain MacDonald’s wedding a few summers ago, mum standing between them.

Birthdays and Christmasses. His grandparents. Mum and a group of her friends, the same women younger, older, younger again through the muddled up years.

And then his mum with another dark haired woman. It’s a little blurry but their smiles are clear and suddenly Jamie remembers being behind the camera, remembers taking it, remembers when and where. Remembers her – Rhona – and that brief period in his early teens. He flicks through the remaining photos and finds three more. They’re smiling in all of them and Jamie remembers how happy his mum was, how Rhona brought something out in her, something lighter and softer.

Prentice never liked her, he remembers that too. Not that Prentice liked many adults when he was a teenager – not reputable adults, anyway. But then Prentice was older than him, had already fallen in with the wrong crowd, resented Rhona as much for the way her presence stole their mum’s attention as for the threat her job presented.

Jamie never saw it like that, though. He blinks away tears furiously, stares and stares at mum’s happy face. That’s what he saw – her happiness. And Rhona always made time for him, always asked how he was, always understood that for Carla her boys came first.

And then one day she stopped coming over, and mum stopped mentioning her. He never did know exactly what happened between them.

Aunt Isobel bustles back in, and the memories dissipate. She peers over his shoulder, sees the photos in his hand and sniffs disapprovingly.

‘That woman,’ she mutters.

‘Her name’s Rhona,’ Jamie says, feeling suddenly, unexpectedly protective.

 _And mum liked her,_ he adds to himself, looking at their smiles again. _So did I._

*          *          *

Jimmy walks down the corridor, taps on Rhona’s open office door and sticks his head inside.

‘You just about ready to…’

He trails off when he sees her. Every line of her body is tense, her fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose. Open on her desk is a case file. Jimmy can see photos spread across the papers, can’t see them properly from here but knows what they’re of.

Quietly he closes the door behind him and walks over, reaches across to gather the crime scene photos of Carla Hayes and flip the file closed. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

‘I can’t unsee them,’ Rhona says eventually, hoarsely. ‘Doesn’t matter what I do, how much I try and remember her alive, how many times I look at photos of her alive.’

‘I know.’

Jimmy’s haunted by the bodies he’s seen, especially the people he’d known, knows Rhona is too. He can only imagine what it would be like if he’d been as close to one of their murder victims as Rhona was to Carla, however long ago it was.

‘But I can’t avoid them. And every time I think it’s getting better I have to open the bloody file, and I see them and it all gets worse again.’

‘I know,’ Jimmy repeats. And then, gently: ‘We need to go.’

Rhona nods, takes a deep, steeling breath. When she looks at him her professional mask is in place, pain confined to her eyes.

‘Ok?’ he asks, once she’s pulled on her jacket and picked up her handbag.

She nods again, follows him out into the corridor without a word, waits as he calls for Tosh and follows them both outside to Jimmy’s car.

Tosh automatically defers to her and slips into the back seat behind Jimmy, exchanges a glance with him in the rear view mirror as Rhona shuts the passenger door. Jimmy knows she’s picked up on Rhona’s mood but she doesn’t know that Rhona’s saying goodbye to someone who was anything more than her first friend in Shetland, and Jimmy’s not about to breach Rhona’s trust to tell her.

He has to park some way from the kirk; everyone knew and loved Carla, after all. And as they’re walking up the road he breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of Millie getting out of her car, glad she managed to get her boss to cover the end of her shift, glad Rhona has someone else here who knows what Carla really was to her.

*          *          *

The kirk is filling but not yet packed. They slip into a pew at the back, Rhona sandwiched between Millie and Jimmy. There’s plenty enough space but both of them sit close to her. She can feel Jimmy’s shoulder against hers, the whole of Millie’s side against hers, knows both of them can feel how she’s already fighting to hold herself together.

 _Not going to cry,_ Rhona tells herself firmly as the service starts. She’s cried plenty at home, even at work behind her office door. But even though she can feel her eyes filling she won’t cry here, not in public, not even now.

It’s the fiddle that nearly does for her, [Tammy Anderson’s slow air](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4c2vvPQG0U&list=WL&index=82&t=0s), Carla another light that has gone out.

Rhona closes her eyes, drags in a breath, the kirk closing in around her.

Millie reaches for her hand, the one not gripping the order of service so tightly it’s crumpling at the corner. On her other side Jimmy shifts, barely noticeable to anyone else but his arm presses firmly against hers. Being surrounded by their care like this is almost too much, almost dissolves the last of her defences they make her feel so protected, so safe. But then Millie squeezes her fingers and Rhona feels grounded, draws strength from them and calms again.

Outside afterwards the others hold back as the mourners slowly inch closer to Jamie, looking uncomfortable and lost in an ill-fitting suit, and Isobel, who’s clearly presiding over matters. When Rhona reaches them Isobel’s eyes flash with disapproval, and Rhona can see her holding back a biting comment so as not to ruin her image.

Jamie looks at her through the haze of grief and lost-ness. His eyes focus with a spark of recognition, and then he suddenly launches himself into her arms. For a moment Rhona is frozen, then she holds him tight. She hears Isobel tutting, knows it’s because it’s her and not because she’s worried Jamie’s acting unseemingly, but ignores her and holds Jamie tighter as he cries into her hair, her shoulder.

She remembers when Jamie was a boy, remembers an afternoon when Prentice had been particularly vicious. Carla had followed him outside to unleash a storm upon him and Jamie – not quite too old, however much he might have protested on any other day – had sought comfort from her. She holds him just as tight now as she did then, feels the same anger at Prentice for hurting him, because Prentice might not have wielded the knife but he got Carla killed nonetheless.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Jamie says, sniffing, when he finally pulls away from her, fumbling for the inside pocket of his jacket.

Behind him Isobel fidgets and huffs, mutters that they should be going, they’ve a wake to get to, but Jamie pays her no mind.

‘I wasnae sure you’re come, but I brought it anyway,’ he says, holding out a slightly dog-eared photo in a trembling hand.

Rhona takes it in an equally trembling hand. The image blurs and she blinks hard, determined not to cry, not now she’s made it through the service.

‘D’you remember?’ Jamie asks.

‘Course I do,’ Rhona replies quietly, lightly tracing her finger over Carla’s face. ‘Your mum’s birthday. You wanted to have a bonfire on the beach so that’s what we did. I smelt of woodsmoke for days.’ She doesn’t mention that Prentice wasn’t there, that his refusal to join them cast a cloud over the day though Carla determinedly hid her disappointment from Jamie. ‘And you made her a wall hanger out of driftwood you’d gathered, and old drawer pulls.’

Jamie nods, smiles briefly. ‘She’s still got it, in her room, still uses it. Used it,’ he corrects himself.

‘It was bloody freezing,’ Rhona continues, eyes still fixed on the photo. They’re huddled together with a blanket draped around their shoulders, sides of their heads touching as they stare past the photographer.

Rhona remembers gazing up at the sky as it turned to twilight, remembers spotting the barely there moon and pointing it out to Carla. Remembers that, out of sight, their other hands are forever tightly clasped. She doesn’t remember the click of the camera, never even knew Jamie had photographed them.

‘Keep it,’ Jamie says, finally giving in to Isobel and allowing her to tug him away by his elbow.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye,’ Jamie nods. He hesitates, pulls his sleeve from Isobel’s grasp and comes back, almost close enough to touch her. ‘It was in a box in her bedside table,’ he says quietly. ‘With all the photos that really mattered to her.’

He’s gone before Rhona can respond. She watches him get into the car, holds the photo to her stomach to keep it safe from the tears she finally can’t stop from falling.

‘Come on,’ Millie says softly, walking up beside her. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘It’s only half three,’ Rhona protests weakly.

‘Go home,’ Jimmy says, quiet but firm.

Rhona doesn’t have the strength to argue. She nods, allows Millie to lead her away from the kirk, manages a smile when Jimmy touches her arm and says goodbye.

Millie doesn’t try to draw her into conversation on the way home, just flicks the radio on quietly and lets her sit surrounded by Bach, Granados, Rimsky-Korsakov, fingers twisting in her lap.

She goes down to the beach without a word as soon as they arrive. The heels of her boots sink slightly into the damp sand with each step, and her jacket isn’t really warm enough for this, but the sea air blowing through her feels refreshing, cleansing, purifying. Clearing the cobwebs, as her mother would say. She touches the photo in her pocket, fingertip gently brushing back and forth over the edge of the stiff paper as she stares at the horizon, tears drying in cold tracks down her cheeks.

When she’s finally ready to go inside Millie is sat on the sofa with a mug of tea, the pot and an empty mug on the table. Rhona pours, can barely touch the china it’s so hot against her chilled fingers. She sits down and holds the photo out to Millie.

‘We could find a nice frame, if you like,’ she says after looking at it for a moment. ‘For this, or one of the others you have. Put it up somewhere.’

‘You wouldn’t mind?’ Rhona frowns. ‘It wouldn’t be weird?’

‘I don’t know, it might be,’ Millie shrugs. ‘But I don’t mind.’

‘Maybe,’ Rhona says. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘It’s up to you,’ Millie says, carefully putting the photo on the table beside the teapot.

Rhona sips her tea, rubs her thumb up and down the side of her finger, looks at Millie over her mug. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly.

‘For what?’ Millie frowns.

‘Being there this afternoon. Knowing just what I needed. Being so wonderful about all this.’

‘I love you,’ Millie says simply, as if that’s all the explanation she needs to give.

Her words warm Rhona far more than the tea does, but even that pales compared to the look in Millie’s eyes. She never thought she’d feel this again, after Phyllis, still can’t quite believe it.

‘What?’ Millie asks, when Rhona keeps gazing at her.

‘I’m just so glad you came here. So glad we found each other again.’

‘Me too,’ Millie smiles. She puts her near empty mug down, holds out her arm.

Rhona willingly abandons her practically full mug and leans into her, shifts so she can rest her head on Millie’s shoulder. ‘I love you too,’ she murmurs.

Millie nuzzles into Rhona’s hair, presses a kiss there. Rhona sighs, feels Millie’s arm tighten around her shoulders and sinks further against her, feels the last remnants of tension not blown away by the wind ebb from her.

‘A drink?’ Millie suggests. ‘To toast the past – and the future?’

‘In a minute,’ Rhona murmurs. ‘No rush – neither of them’s going anywhere, after all.’

‘True,’ Millie smiles, kissing the top of Rhona’s head again. ‘Not going anywhere at all.’


End file.
